


Fuel Shortage

by Anonymous



Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: (consensual and nonconsensual), Belly Kink, Belly Rubs, Breakdown Lives (Transformers), Canon-Typical Violence, Chubformers, Denial, Established Relationship, Eventual Happy Ending, Fat Shaming, Food Porn, Hand Jobs, Intercrural Sex, Kink Discovery, M/M, Masturbation, Porn with Feelings, Pre-Canon, Relationship Problems, Size Difference, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Stuffing, Weight Gain, Weight Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:54:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28328580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: On the racing circuit, weight is everything, and lighter is better; in an era of pre-war scarcity, fuel is on everyone's mind.Knock Out's always been (if he's honest with himself, which he rarely is) fascinated by Breakdown's bulk...and his appetite and capacity. Stretched to his snapping point between medical school and illicit racing, he explores some facets of his sexuality he'd rather not face.Breakdown's spent countless stellar cycles around racers, and he's never thought of his size as remotely desirable. But (if he's honest with himself, which he rarely is) he likes having a little more weight to throw around. Or a lot more.Knock Out lives (and eats) vicariously. Breakdown calls Bulkhead childish names, makes questionable life choices, and eats (a lot).
Relationships: Knock Out/Breakdown
Comments: 40
Kudos: 60
Collections: anonymous





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written partially in response to the recent influx of weight gain/stuffing art in TFP fandom.
> 
> Took some inspiration from Knock Out's IDW characterization, which leaned heavily on weight issues. Can be read without IDW knowledge.

“Hey, Bulkhead. Thought we were in a fuel shortage.” Breakdown slugged his nineteeth mug of Visco: cheap factory runoff, and it left a salty film on his lips. So did the handful of ammonium-salted wheelnuts. “Share some with the rest of us, will you?”

He slapped his own belly. Immediately he regretted it: he’d eaten more than he’d thought, and his tanks gurgled and roiled. A warning flashed up on his HUD: _primary tank at 97% capacity._

For the last metacycle he’d come to the _Dirty Mudflap_ almost nightly. Knock Out’s placement exams were approaching, and Knock Out came home from the cadaver lab only to recharge (and that rarely); so Breakdown had taken to refueling at the bar after his shifts.

In the greasy darkness at the edge of the bar, leaning against the wall to balance the leaden weight of his tanks, he was almost invisible. He’d watched the gladiatorial matches and the lobbing championships, exchanging anonymous small talk with the barmech. And he’d drunk his pay, gallon by gallon, until picking a fight seemed inevitable—

“Fuel shortage?” The white mech in Bulkhead’s shadow sipped his own drink, optics narrow. “You drink it all, buddy?”

“C’mon, Jackie.” Bulkhead glanced away, though in the reflected neon light Breakdown caught the bitter set of his jaw. (Breakdown reveled in it.) “He’s not worth it.”

Breakdown’s faceplate heated—or perhaps the Visco was kicking in at last. He moved to rise, his hammer-hand twitching. Itching to be used. 

The weight in his tanks had other ideas. _Auxiliary fuel tank at 49% capacity._

_Primus._

Breakdown sat down with a grunt. In the back of his intake he tasted salt. His tanks seemed to occupy his whole frame, pressing insistently against his engine block and ammo magazines; as he shifted his weight, his grille dug into a roll of mesh, his armor pinching the tender circuitry.

His engine sputtered with humiliation. He was too full to stand.

“I’ve been wondering, Bulkhead,” he growled, voicebox crackling. Breakdown steadied himself against the bar; his vents hissed. His gaze drilled like an auger through Bulkhead. “How’s it feel to have your own gravitational field?”

They’d wrestled in grease-stained alleyways, rolling and kicking and clawing at each other’s seams. He’d felt Bulkhead’s weight pinning him down, felt the soft mesh under his belly-plating give way beneath a staggering blow. 

He’d thrown insults like punches. On Velocitron he’d learned a whole arsenal of fat jokes: quick haymakers; low and dirty blows; slashes through the tender mesh, right down to the Spark. He’d never hesitated. It had been easy, mean-spirited; he’d felt lazy and mean.

But he’d never been really _aware_ of Bulkhead’s weight, of his ponderous movements. Of how he must be compensating for the iron ballast of his belly, leaning slightly back. Of how his armor fit him perfectly—though until tonight Breakdown had taken that for granted—

“You like it, huh? You’re real proud of being bigger’n Unicron?” The low menace in his tone was spoiled by a belch. Breakdown’s cheeks warmed, but he continued. “Hey, Bulkhead, I’m gonna launch your fat backside into orbit. Maybe I’ll call you Luna-3. You like that?” A tipsy laugh welled up in him, and another belch. He tasted Visco, salty and sickly-sweet. “How’s it feel, being—”

Bulkhead shook his head, disgust in his weak blue optics. Breakdown grinned; he’d scored a point.

But Bulkhead’s friend chuckled. “Keep packing it away, you’re gonna find out.”

He was too full to drive. On the transport home he slumped across three seats, rubbing his sides, watching the neon lights blur into streaks. The transport smelled faintly of salt and old grease, and as he shifted his weight the smell of ancient frying oil leached from the padding; to his annoyance he realized his chemoreceptors were tingling. As if expecting more food.

Eighty-three shanix for the food and the Visco. Five shanix for the transport. He’d eaten an entire solar cycle’s pay, mindlessly, because he’d liked the warmth in his tanks.

Breakdown glared, eyelids half-shuttered, at the elderly Disposable in the opposite seat. “You looking at something, lady?”

On his second try he made it up the fire stairs to their squatters’ habsuite; the rusted-out iron creaked threateningly beneath his weight. (Had it always?)

Knock Out stirred, his vocoder chirping, as Breakdown lowered himself gingerly into the cramped berth. “Getting a little contact buzz off you, big boy.”

“Drank too much.” His tanks felt bloated, as if he’d been filled with warm lead. There seemed no comfortable position; he shifted from side to side, keeping his weight off his belly, and groaned. “Ate too much.”

Knock Out opened one optic, then the other. A shadowy smile flitted across his faceplate. “That’s a first.”

“Real funny.” Breakdown knew that look; that look meant trouble. He rolled over, into the warm darkness, rubbing his aching gut. “Not tonight. I’m gonna bust a gasket if I move.”

His aux tank gurgled. Through his plating he felt his engine hum, soothing coolant trickling through delicate reserve lines. Even those felt strained. Stretched to their limit under his tanks’ weight. Cautiously he kneaded a seam with a knuckle.

The lower plate gave, with a tiny clink, and sprang back. Where he’d expected taut cable and unyielding strut, his probing finger met a soft bulge of mesh. He pulled back. Felt the mesh relax, swelling against the inside of his armor. Filling in the gaps. Pressing the plating gently outward.

That was new.

“Huh.” It came out dazed. Staticky. Strangled-sounding, as if the weight in his tanks were crushing his voicebox.

Knock Out slung an arm around him from behind, nestling softly against Breakdown’s back. Their berth was inset into the wall, with barely enough space for two. _You put on any weight_ , Knock Out had drawled as they’d built it, _and I’ll be recharging on top of your big blue bumper._ A circuit blazed in Breakdown’s storage banks; the memory flashed, electric, through his mind.

“Swallow your voicebox along with all that fuel, Breakdown?” Knock Out’s fingers traced over his forearm, making him shiver and buck, and down to his belly. His claws ghosted along the seams—

—and if anyone would feel the weight and the strain and the burning tingle in his fiber optics, the soft swell beneath his armor, Knock Out would, and though his mind was swimming, Breakdown braced himself—

“Sure feels like you did. What have you _got_ in there?” And there was shock in Knock Out’s voice, and a low raw edge of delight. “You’re ready to pop.”

He knew that tone. It hit like a thunderclap.

“Med school teach you that?” He’d tensed; now he relaxed into Knock Out’s arms, pinned down by the weight of his tanks. So he felt the wave of charge rush through Knock Out, felt the little stutter of his engine.

Knock Out’s hands kneaded his belly, strong and confident. Feeling along his flanks for the thinner armor. Pressing deep through the mesh, in tight taunting circles. “Oh, somebody’s _full_.”

He was; he grunted softly. The pressure danced on the edge of pain, his tanks roiling. He tasted Visco, muddy on his chemical receptors, and the bright ozone of Knock Out’s arousal.

“Does that hurt, Breakdown? Burp once for yes. Twice for no.” Knock Out’s claws dug deep.

Breakdown’s faceplate blazed—with embarrassment, he told himself dimly. He buried his face in the berth. “There _anything_ that doesn’t get you revved up?”

For Knock Out had slung a leg around his thigh, grinding against his aft with little squeaks of metal on metal. “You’re too full to move. I could take your big juicy aft _right_ here—” He broke off, his voice rising. “Mm. Been too long.”

It had. Breakdown rolled his optics, grinning reluctantly. “I’m beat. Service yourself and power down.”

Though Knock Out’s smirking delight was infectious.

“Breakdown.” Knock Out’s voice was tense as garrotte wire. “At least some oral? Wouldn’t be the first thing you’ve had down your intake tonight.”

His fingers tightened on the berth. Knock Out’s hands were sweet bliss; beneath them the ache dissolved into sleepy contentment. The mesh vibrated, sensitive and warm, at the frequency of his engine. Jiggling slightly.

“You kidding?” The words found his synth before he could stop them. “I’m packed so full, your connector's gonna bust me open.”

A come-on. Knock Out knew him well enough to recognize that.

He felt Knock Out’s motor hitch, jarring his whole system. Against his hip, Knock Out’s plate slid back with a well-oiled click; at the slick hot nudge of his connector, Breakdown let out a growl. Ground back.

“What say I open you up?” purred Knock Out, and his connector slipped with a soft squelch between Breakdown’s thighs. It vibrated with the buzz of their tangled bodies, its ridges brushing warm and wet over Breakdown’s plating. Setting his fiber optics alight. “Give your port a little loving.”

He considered, for long nanocycles, while Knock Out’s hands cradled his belly and Knock Out’s connector rubbed tenderly over sensitive plating. “Nah.” It came out in a stifled groan. “Too full.”

“Spoilsport,” drawled Knock Out into his armor. With a shudder and a moan he thrust, forward and back, arms wrapped around Breakdown’s belly. Falling into an easy pounding rhythm.

A haze of warm charge was building in the space between them. Breakdown tasted it, letting the air flow over his chemoreceptors. His optics shuttered, pulling him into welcome darkness.

His whole world was the tender fullness of his tanks, the sweet slick heat of Knock Out’s connector sliding between his thighs. Pressing tauntingly against his plate.

“Nice thighs.” Knock Out’s voice was choked. “A little something for the pushing.” His hands dug deep, squeezing and rubbing through the armor. A little pain, then. It danced on his fiber optics.

This was good, thought Breakdown dizzily, this was better than anything—

He was beyond words. He grunted and huffed, bucking back against Knock Out, his aft rubbing Knock Out’s perfectly taut stomach. Teasing him back.

“No, you _don’t_ —”

A quick flurry of slaps and pinches to his gut. His armor might have been tinfoil, so sensitive was his belly. Breakdown groaned. Fingers digging into the berth. Jaw clenching until bright stars popped in his processor.

“You’ve _had_ your fun fueling up, big boy,” whispered Knock Out, over the creak and squish of his connector sliding forward and back. His voice hitched, static breaking through. “Now it’s my turn to play with you like a big, squirming toy crammed full of stuffing—”

He pressed his faceplate, scorching and damp with condensate, into Breakdown’s back. The air rushing from his vents was hot, humid, choking Breakdown’s circuits.

Breakdown squeezed his thighs together, around the sweet crackling charge. Panting, his fans picking up. Gritting his teeth, as if the pleasure would break him.

They moved as one.

Knock Out’s whole body jerked, grinding into Breakdown. A stream of static poured unbroken from his synthesizer. Transfluid pumped in spurts, hot with electrical charge, over Breakdown’s thighs; the current spread through him, over him, in warm waves. Filling him up.

Knock Out’s overload was heady as Visco. Breakdown’s head swam with it. For the second time that night he felt sated.

Knock Out’s fingers traced the seam of his thigh, swiping through the thick fluid. A talon brushed Breakdown’s lip; automatically he opened, and obediently he licked it clean. Knock Out tasted almost sweet. The residual charge buzzed on Breakdown’s lips.

“Good boy,” gasped Knock Out, his vocalizer clicking. He slumped against Breakdown’s back, his warmth wonderfully grounding.

Breakdown felt a smug grin tug at his lips. Still he did not open his optics. “You’re easy.”

“Guilty as charged, big boy.” It felt pointed. “You scratched my itch. Want me to scratch yours?”

And indeed, the warmth pulsed still between Breakdown’s thighs, beneath his plating. Scarcely distinguishable from the warm ache of his full belly. He felt heavy and weighed down; he felt content. “Nah. Rather just sleep this off.”

They lay in near-silence, listening to the steady rumble of Breakdown’s engine and the gurgle of his tanks. After a cycle, Knock Out stretched with a series of clicks, going for the cleaning cloths.

“I’d say that burned a few kilojoules, eh?”

The berth felt abruptly very large and very empty. Breakdown curled in on himself, grunting at the pressure on his tanks, at the pinch of a roll of mesh in his armor. “I can lose this, no problem. Gimme a couple quartexes.”

A moment’s silence, but for the squeak of cloth on Knock Out’s sleek plating. “Right.” His synth clicked. “Could do that.”

They’d known each other too long. He could envision Knock Out’s expression perfectly: the raised brows, the tight mouth.

He searched for words, finding only a low growl.

“Really, it’s barely noticeable. Wasn’t sure myself until tonight.” A neat little laugh. The too-polished laugh of a mech avoiding something. “Armor like yours can hide a lot.”

Breakdown shifted, slinging an arm over his optics. He was in no hurry, he decided, to meet Knock Out’s gaze. “You gonna make this weird?”

His free hand found the dings and fresh scuffs where Knock Out’s talons had dug into his plating. Where Knock Out had groped his belly eagerly as they interfaced.

“Moi? Never. Can’t imagine how.” Knock Out settled with a hydraulic whir into the berth. Almost tenderly he spread Breakdown’s legs, swiping a warm rag along his seams. “Your thighs really are luscious. Sturdy. Always thought so.”

He was a bad liar. He’d always been a bad liar, or else Breakdown knew him too well by now.

“Not like you to get embarrassed. Touchy subject?” It hung in the air. Knock Out’s hand lingered on his inner thigh, waiting. He pushed forward, though his voicebox felt made of tar. “You want me to keep it on, you say so.”

It seemed to sizzle on his lips. A little pulse of current washed through him.

Between his legs, Knock Out shifted. The air seemed charged again, as if any movement would shatter the silence with crackling arcs of electricity. “You’re no racer—”

“No scrap.”

“Never been what I’d call svelte. Built for brute strength, not speed.” Knock Out paused delicately. “Big fuel tank. Bigger appetite.” His voice crackled, synth humming. “Heavy-duty.”

Breakdown grunted agreement, cutting him off. Mercifully, he thought. “Say it.” 

He buried his faceplate in the crook of his elbow, optics squeezed shut. He sounded, he knew, more certain than he felt.

Knock Out vented sharply; Breakdown heard his lights click on. “Takes two to tango, Breakdown, and I’m not the _only_ one with a little kink here. Or should I say a big kink?”

The tension in the air discharged. Breakdown could almost feel the snap.

And before Breakdown could blurt a response, Knock Out was up, padding to the door. “Should hose off. Get some recharge, big guy.”

The door squeaked shut. A cycle later, solvent spattered the fire stairs rhythmically, like mercury rain.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Knock Out cuts weight for a competition. Breakdown eats enough for both of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter discusses Knock Out's own weight issues.

Life went on. Knock Out seemed in no hurry to discuss what they’d done; Breakdown found he didn’t mind. The night receded into memory like a hazy hot-dream.

They saw little of each other. Knock Out recharged in stolen moments, he explained, at the Science Academy; the aerodynamics residencies accepted only the best. “Go knock ‘em dead,” Breakdown told him, meaning it.

In his spare nanocycles, “to keep himself sharp,” Knock Out was training for the Rodion Irregular. Knock Out was always  _ in training, _ always ravenous and prickly. This Breakdown had long since accepted.

So as the sweltering summer broke, and a chill crept into the industrial slums of Iacon, Breakdown was left to his own devices.

He worked double shifts at the foundry. In the two-shanix public baths he soaked off the soot and petcoke, half-dozing in the heat. He took long drives outside the city, setting off explosives in the wastelands for the joy of it; he took odd jobs under the table. He drank with his lobbing buddies; more often he drank alone. He picked fights (and won most of them). Mostly he ignored politics. On long nights in his habsuite he cleaned his guns, half-watching Megatronus’s gladiatorial matches. In Knock Out’s absence he self-serviced, loudly and vigorously.

And he ate. 

After his shifts he knocked back gallons of Engex and Visco until his processor reeled. He was a regular now at the  _ Dirty Mudflap, _ and the patrons who’d seen his temper gave him a wide berth. (Breakdown didn’t mind.) The cheap rotgut went down easier with solid food: huge handfuls of salty wheelnuts; crackly golden crystals of calcite; greasy petroleum-balls that made his tanks churn. Breakdown liked them all.

“Sorry, big guy,” said the barmech one night, pulling his battered oil drum from behind the counter. “You’ve been a great customer. Hate to raise prices on you—but at the market rates for Energon these days, I might as well be siphoning my own—”

“Might taste better than the brake fluid you serve here.” Breakdown absently rubbed his stomach, settling with a relieved groan onto the barstool. “Something going on with the mines?”

He took the drum. Breakdown had given up on mugs and cubes: they were portioned for runty scouts and spindly racers, he’d slurred, and the barmech had hastily agreed. The drum felt nicely heavy in his hand. 

But perhaps the bartender had been shorting him this quartex; the full drum seemed not to fill his tank anymore. He’d found himself ordering refills.

“You haven’t heard, huh?” The barmech’s fans clicked. He’d lost weight, Breakdown noticed: his chipped plating overlapped itself now. “Big mineshaft outside Tesarus just ran dry. Halogen’s trying to push a funding bill for that cloning initiative in Kaon—”

“Huh,” said Breakdown, who didn’t care; mining he knew too well, and the High Council he was content to ignore. His tanks gurgled expectantly. He’d gotten used to solids. “How much for some calcite?”

So as the nights grew longer and the prices rose, Breakdown spent more evenings in the habsuite. Over their shabby magnetic coil he cooked (badly): sweet oilcakes dripping in crude oil (he licked it off his fingers); syrupy condensed Energon, its blue glow almost blinding; an abortive attempt at petroleum balls. Cheap food that stuck to the fuel lines.

The coil broke. A night of scavenging in the scrapyard produced no replacement parts. Breakdown replaced it with a blowtorch.

Knock Out had given him free rein over their cold storage  _ (I’ll grab a sip at the clinic, no point buying for me). _ Dutifully Breakdown bought the thin, fiery Energon broths Knock Out favored. Knock Out seemed always to be cutting weight, though from  _ where, _ Breakdown wasn’t sure—

But Knock Out’s pings (sent while Breakdown recharged) were firm, brisk, and unambiguous.  _ Buy yourself something sweet. It’ll do your body good. _

_ You’re a big mech, Breakdown. You need your fuel. _

_ Finish the last of those zinc cubes. Don’t want them tempting me. Buy yourself another box. _

He obeyed; he was happy to obey. Zinc cubes and silicon chips rarely lasted long enough to tempt Knock Out, he discovered. As his makeshift forge steamed in the frigid air, Breakdown leaned against the fire stairs and ate wheelnuts by the handful.

He was putting on weight, he knew in half-forgotten processor banks. Breakdown’s armor felt snug around the belly, as if the metal had contracted against the bracing wind.

Breakdown enjoyed the cold: the sharp tingle on his veneer; the wind stinging his optics; the warmth in his chest, his engine a roaring furnace shielded by his plating. Velocitronians were a hardy people, accustomed to climate extremes—

The winter seemed warmer this stellar cycle, he told himself. 

But of course his insulation was thicker. At times it surprised him. Bending down to check a hissing gasket, he grunted in shock as his mesh bunched into pudgy rolls, pressing insistently against his grille.  _ He _ was thicker. (The thought sent an unsettling tingle through him.) Difficult to believe this soft, lush metal was part of him. Beneath his solid armor it felt strikingly vulnerable—

—and then Breakdown took a fist to the belly in a back-alley brawl. The force staggered him; he doubled over, his cooling fans hacking and sputtering. For a split instant he was grateful for anything at all between the world and his fragile circuitry. He straightened. His wild laugh shook his whole frame. His mesh vibrated, jiggling softly beneath his plating.

Armor, he thought that night, sipping steaming Energon at the bar. He’d grown himself a coat of chainmail around his cables and engine block. The thought prickled uncomfortably in his processor; there was something disquieting, something he could not quite name, in the alert tingle of his fiber optics. As if on autopilot he reached down, gently massaging his belly. Soothing it. Exploring the edges of the sturdy plating. Hefting his mesh slightly, testing its weight in a shaking hand. His vocoder clicked. He swallowed hard. He’d never been so thankful for the darkness at the edge of the bar.

Some well-worn subroutine engaged. He reached for the salted wheelnuts.

For millennia Breakdown had been content to ignore his body. He’d been Sparked plain: heavyset and slow-moving. He’d blocked it out. But there was no ignoring the intriguing pressure of his mesh against his armor. It sickened him, he told himself.

His fans hitched, though his internal wiring felt uncomfortably warm. His fingers curled. He stared into the half-deserted bar, his optics focusing on thin air. The holoscreens chattered, spitting and sparking. At the other end of the bar, the barmech rinsed chipped cubes in solvent.

Breakdown leaned against the bar, gingerly. His intake had gone dry of lubricant. He tasted ammonium salts, warm Energon, and diesel.

Beneath his jutting chestplate he could see nothing; out of long habit he avoided his reflection. Under his fingers his plating felt passably flat.  _ Armor like yours can hide a lot, _ Knock Out had said, and Breakdown took reluctant comfort in that.

The barmech glanced up, his optics bright. As if he’d sensed the electricity tingling in Breakdown’s armor, or else the uneasiness squirming in his Spark chamber.

“Uh.” Breakdown’s faceplate felt scorchingly hot. In the Engex tanks behind the bar he caught sight of himself, clearly: the bared teeth; the blaze of his optics; and the abdominal plating only just beginning to swell outward. “Get me another one of these.”

He nursed his Energon with a hand on his stomach, feeling his aux tank fill slowly. The growing weight of it lulled him, soothing his nerves and his temper. He squeezed his mesh through his plating, stunned still by its softness.  _ He _ was getting softer.

It felt like a dirty secret. 

That night, and for the nights to come, he self-serviced with his free hand on his belly. His mesh wobbled palpably as his hips jerked; a bolt of pleasure shot through him at that, and his fingers dug deeper. Squeezing.

“Primus,” he muttered, staring at the damp-stained ceiling. Rubbing a lubricant-slick finger around the rim of his port. “Scrap, I shouldn’t be—”

And as his fans picked up and his heels dug into the floor, he growled,  _ "by the sun," _ through clenched teeth. Like the Velocitronian he’d been. The taboo pushed him over, and he found himself roaring, blue sparks crackling around his body.

He felt disgracefully heavy. Perverse. An inversion of everything Velocitron’s racer-class had stood for.

Iacon was getting to him. 

He brawled in stinking alleyways and limped home with dings and bruised wires; he toiled until his shoulders ached; he ate until his plating ached.

There was, he told himself, nothing  _ weird _ about it. It was natural to put on weight over the vorns. Only the vain kept their sleek frames forever. Some of the roughnecks at the bar were practically round. He was nowhere near Bulkhead’s girth.

(Yet. The thought raced through him like lightning, making him gasp and squirm.)

He’d been Sparked big and broad. No lithe racer, Breakdown. It had made him tough; he’d learned to swagger and snarl, to flaunt his strength. And if he’d never loved his body—who did, really?—he’d come to an uneasy truce with it.

But his body was changing, his plating tighter by the day. In the optics of the foundry crew and the regulars at the bar, he caught odd sidelong glances from time to time.

And the questions: “Your conjunx takes pretty good care of you, huh, Breakdown?” “Hey, Breakdown, when’s the eating contest?” “Are you and that slick little speedster—uh—okay?” (This last hit home.)

The questions he silenced with gruff laughter or casual threats. The gazes he could not shake so easily.

It was natural to put on weight over the vorns. And if he was piling it on quickly—

Well, there was nothing  _ interesting _ about that, either.

One night he came online with a jolt. Dusty moonlight trickled through the window, and the prim purr of Knock Out’s fans counted off the nanocycles. He’d not heard Knock Out come in.

With a tiny burst of static, Knock Out pulled him close. He’d fallen asleep with a hand on Breakdown’s grille; now in his recharge he squeezed Breakdown tight.

Powered down, he was breathtakingly beautiful: so lean and intricate he might’ve been assembled by a watchmaker. He’d been the prettiest bot on Velocitron, small and quick and (for his size) so strong.

_ (I’ve got the size where it counts, _ he’d said, smirking. Small connectors had been in fashion; Knock Out had built himself a hefty one.)

Not for the first time, Breakdown wondered what Knock Out had been thinking. He leaned in, kissing Knock Out’s smooth lips. With a squeak of pistons, he clambered from the berth. (Perhaps it was his imagination—but he felt clumsier. Heavier.)

On the fire stairs he smoked his cy-garette, watching the neon lights play over the golden spires of Upper Iacon. Through the haze of industrial smoke they were muted. He was reminded for an instant of home—

Breakdown shook it off. He was thinking of the old planet too often lately.

He recharged better on a full tank, he’d discovered that quartex. The habsuite felt warmer, almost claustrophobic, after the brisk night. From the cold storage he pulled a bottle of condensed Energon syrup, and with cy-garette in hand he chugged it down. The relief was immediate. Undiluted and chilled, the syrup tasted like candy. With every swallow his tanks felt cooler. Yet his Spark pulsed with a flickering, uncertain warmth.

Movement in the berth. Knock Out was sitting up. The bottle’s ghostly turquoise glow was the sole light in the habsuite. So Knock Out’s faceplate shone blue, tense and expectant.

They’d not seen each other awake for a quartex or more. Knock Out’s gaze found Breakdown’s belly, his optics widening. He swallowed, vocoder clicking.

Breakdown felt an icy jolt of embarrassment—as if he’d been caught self-servicing, he thought sharply—

—but there was no shame in sex. This was far more private. “Something interesting?” He set down the bottle, fumbling to deactivate his cy-garette. “You need your recharge.”

“Finish the bottle, sweet stuff.” There was no trace of sleep mode in Knock Out’s voice. His gaze did not waver.

Treacherously, Breakdown’s connector stirred beneath its plate. He searched for words; his vocoder seemed paralyzed.

“Nice lines,” purred Knock Out. “Magnificent. With a body like that, you must be fighting ‘em off when I’m not around.” 

“You’d be surprised.” Still he flexed a little, his pistons squeaking. Every sound in the room seemed too loud. “You forget what I look like, or you just glad to see me?”

And for an instant Knock Out seemed just as rattled. “I—uh—”

_ Finish the bottle, _ he’d said, with hungry optics. Almost nibbling at his lip.

They stared for a klik at each other, on the cusp of some shadowy mutual understanding.

“You like what you see?” growled Breakdown, with a swagger he didn’t quite feel. It was almost a challenge. He stretched, with a creak of massive cables and a pleasant ache; his armor rippled, plating clicking into place. Emphasizing the broad chest and the growing belly beneath it, where—

—Breakdown saw it in Knock Out’s thunderstruck expression—

—the plating strained to contain him.

Knock Out whistled, recovering himself. “Getting some stress marks there, Breakdown. Really packing it on.” It sounded filthy. His optics flickered; he glanced away, then back, a slow leer spreading over his faceplate. “Look at that gut.”

And before Breakdown could speak, he was out of the berth, and they were embracing roughly and awkwardly, as if neither knew where to put his hands. Knock Out’s claws seemed everywhere: roaming over Breakdown’s sides, pinching experimentally at the soft mesh there, and then an instant later slipping down his back. Wherever they went, Breakdown’s armor tingled.

“You like this, huh?” Breakdown rasped. His mouth had gone suddenly dry. “My big fat gut turns you on, huh?”

It was the first time he’d said it aloud. It sounded good. Sounded sleazy and knowing and  _ right. _

“Tact, Breakdown.” Knock Out pulled away, his faceplate wet with fresh condensation; his fans roared, on full blast. Breakdown had not heard them engage. His expression was shockingly calm. “You’re bigger every time I see you.” He reached between them, going perhaps for Breakdown’s interface plate—

No. He cupped the side of Breakdown’s belly, motor growling hungrily. His smile was wicked. “That’s—what—six hundred kilos? Easily. What in the Pit are you eating?”

Six hundred kilos. Over half a ton. It sounded impossible. Staggering. His processor reeled. He’d have guessed a hundred or less—

“Everything that stands still.” It came out before he could stop it.

Knock Out chuckled, his brows raised. “Feels like it.” His expression was faraway. Little jolts of current raced through him, leaping between them with a crackle. “You’re  _ soft. _ Under that armor. All that Energon’s giving you a chubby little tummy, Breakdown—”

“Keep teasing me,” Breakdown growled, though his own motor was roaring, and the electricity building in him was dizzying as a lightning storm, “and I’ll sit on you.”

Knock Out whimpered. Moaned. Kissed his breastplate sloppily, over and over. Static was leaking from his vocoder, and the air was heavy with potential charge. Blue sparks arced between their bodies, wherever Knock Out kissed him. “Going to have to  _ catch _ me first, thick-rims—” He threw his head back, cursing, shaking in Breakdown’s arms. Going for his interface plate, hand fumbling desperately between them—

—and they were on the floor, and Knock Out was gasping static, his connector blazing—

A loud snap. A flash of blue. Hot transfluid soaked Breakdown’s belly; the ghost of Knock Out’s overload washed over him.

Again they stared at each other, blinking away the afterimages. The furious light had leaked out of Knock Out’s optics; he looked ghostly, dazed.

“Knock Out.” Still Breakdown’s motor was roaring, the heat in him choking his vocoder. It was a strain to speak. “You OK?”

“May have just rebooted.” Knock Out sat back, shivering. His smile was forced. “A touch of post-overload clarity.”

Cycles passed. Breakdown sprawled in the berth, stroking himself off; his other hand he rested between belly and thigh, sleepily savoring his own warmth.

“Leave a little room for me, big guy.” Knock Out smelled of fresh solvent, and he seemed to carry the night-chill with him. The bottle of Energon syrup glowed in one hand.

Silently Breakdown moved over. He was clumsier than he’d been.  _ (Half a ton. _ Half a ton of deadweight.) Knock Out watched, his optics bright in the dark, and as Breakdown settled puffing against the wall, Knock Out clambered into the berth beside him.

The bottle was chilly; Knock Out was chilly. Still he leaned into Knock Out.

“Half a ton, huh?” He forced a casual tone. The squeak of his fingers on his lubricant-slick connector seemed to echo.

Knock Out warmed his hand for an instant on Breakdown’s vents. Reached down. “Half a ton of raw sex appeal.” His voice was too bright; his hand was sure, his grip strong. “It suits you.”

They avoided each other’s gaze.

“Never seen you overload so fast before.” He punctuated it with little grunts, his rivets squeaking as his hips jerked. Little jolts of current pulsed through him. Frustrating him.

Knock Out’s face was tight as a mask, his optics gleaming. “Let’s forget that ever happened. Dump the whole memory bank. Start over fresh. What say you?”

“You’re an ass-gasket.” It came out in a strangled growl. He thrust hard into Knock Out’s palm.

Knock Out’s hand paused for the briefest of cycles. “Ouch.”

Breakdown’s temper flared, hotter than the charge ebbing and flowing in him. “Easy for you to forget all about it, huh?” He was warming again, his fans clattering. Lubricant trickled down his connector’s ridges, over Knock Out’s pretty fingers. “You can walk away the nanocycle you overload—”

And Knock Out picked up the pace, squeezing him a little tighter with every word. The lubricant squished through his fingers, deliciously.  _ "Breakdown." _

Breakdown shuddered, and a spark flickered from his connector. The burst of pleasure made him squirm, hydraulics tightening as they pressurized. His cables creaked. “I got nice and fat for you, you vain waxjob.” A rush of static spilled from his vocoder.

The weight of his belly was grounding. Calming.

“Say you like it.” His voice was dangerous.

Knock Out nestled closer, slipping an arm around Breakdown’s waist. It barely reached. His back was getting broader, he realized—

It was that, or else the gentle pressure of Knock Out’s body, that pushed him closer to the edge. The current in him picked up, a dizzying pumping rhythm, and around him the air crackled. His glossa tingled.

“First thing I liked about you was your big, big appetite,” whispered Knock Out into his audial—and his tone was hot with shame. He’d never heard Knock Out  _ ashamed; _ he’d thought him perhaps incapable of it. “Heavy-duty and strong, that’s what I like in a mech—and there’s plenty of you to like—”

He buried his scorching-hot face in Breakdown’s shoulder, nuzzling his cables. Breakdown’s world went white.

Afterward, he gulped down the Energon syrup straight from the bottle, as if his overload had drained him. Knock Out watched, his motors squeaking as he shifted uneasily. Like a starving mech at a feast, Breakdown thought, fearing it might vanish—

He took Knock Out’s slim hand. Roughly he pressed it to his belly; as his cables tightened, his mesh wobbled, and Knock Out’s optics went wide. His claws dug in, slipping beneath the seams.

The Energon tasted dizzyingly sweet; it went down cold and refreshing.

As the sun rose, watery light trickling through their habsuite window, Breakdown rifled through the cold storage. With a little growl he fired up the blowtorch, while behind him Knock Out’s rotary buffer buzzed. The air tasted of butane, of fresh polish, of fiery mercury sauce. And discontent, too.

Breakdown turned, slamming a cube of Energon broth onto their shabby table. A dusting of bright-yellow salts dissolved, coloring the broth, as he watched. “Eat.”

Pique flashed over Knock Out’s face. Still he settled at the table, cautiously. “Thank you, Breakdown.”

“Don’t mention it.” He’d never hidden his anger well. Breakdown slung crude oil into the pan, dumping in the reagents; the flame flashed up, and he held the pan carefully out of reach. “When’s your race?”

“Too soon. Not far enough.” Knock Out sent a data packet. Breakdown accepted, grudgingly: the date and time flashed on his HUD. “I’ve got nine more kilos to drop and a  _ motherboard _ of a lot of training.”

His laugh sounded forced.

Breakdown scavenged petroleum-balls from the cold storage. Into the pan they went, along with nuggets of calcite. Breakdown liked something savory in the morning. “Woulda thought one of your aerodynamics buddies could, uh, trim you down—”

Though there was nothing on Knock Out to trim. He half-turned, eyeing Knock Out, who beamed nervously.

Breakdown set his jaw. His rocket launcher squeaked to life; he flicked it with a forefinger, silencing it. “You’re always hungry, aren’t you?”

“Aren’t  _ you?" _ said Knock Out, brows raised. He’d not touched his fuel. “Could’ve fooled me.”

He was right; it annoyed Breakdown that he was right. “You’re vain and crazy. I’m just fat.” He bit into an oilcake. Warm grease flooded his mouth.

And if he sometimes ate until his tanks ached, gorging himself until he thought he’d burst with primitive satisfaction, though he’d long since sated his body’s hunger—well, that was private.

“Mm. Don’t know if I’d say that yet.” Knock Out tilted his head, eyeing him too closely. “Robust. Going soft in the middle.”

_ Yet. _ Again an unspoken understanding flashed between them. Breakdown swallowed. “Drink your Energon before it gets cold.”

He dropped with an  _ oof _ into his own chair; he had to lower himself more carefully of late. His plate steamed, stacked high with sticky oilcakes and gleaming petroleum balls and crisp golden crystals. “Cheers.”

“To good health.” Knock Out sipped his broth. “Spicy. You’re getting good at this.”

Breakdown took a swig of sweetened Energon from his huge mug. “You actually like that stuff?”

Knock Out shrugged. “It hits the spot. Can’t say I don’t miss—” He gestured at Breakdown’s fuel. “Cycle of life. Broth for three quartexes, feeling like a prisoner on starvation rations.” His mouth twitched. “Eat like an Insecticon before the race. Burn it all like  _ that. _ Put on a few kilos in the off-season—keeping the old engine healthy—” He took another sip. “At least  _ one _ of us gets to eat, eh?”

Breakdown’s engine growled. He bit off a chunk of calcite, crunching it experimentally. “You want to trade? Make me a skinny little speedster, while you get to stuff your intake all day?” Another glug of Energon. “I hear there’s clinics that’ll—”

The sun pooled on the table between them, and the distant rumble of Iacon waking up filtered through the thin walls.

“I’ll pass,” said Knock Out, but he took Breakdown’s massive hand in both of his. Breakdown shivered. Thought for a second of pulling away. “Can’t imagine life without the track. The thrills. The wind on my hood. The adoring crowds—the trophies—the prize money—the  _ victories—” _

Breakdown shrugged, taking another bite. “And you’d look like me.” His belly was starting to press against the table, he noted with a flicker of strange pleasure. “You’d hate that. I’m not too fond of it myself.”

Though that wasn’t so true anymore, he realized as he said it.

Knock Out glared at him. Knock Out was heartbreakingly beautiful in the first light of morning, his faceplate translucent and gleaming.  _ "Breakdown. _ You’re a handsome bot. Always have been. I’m a lucky boy.”

They ate in silence for a moment.

“Breakdown,” said Knock Out, in a casual tone Breakdown didn’t believe. “Be honest with me here. Cards on the table. Do you  _ like—” _ He gestured to Breakdown’s fuel again—

—or to his gut. Breakdown couldn’t tell which. He took a long glug of Energon. “I don’t hate it.” And that was not the whole truth either. “You would.”

“You got it.” And Knock Out finished his broth; he made a quick slurp look elegant. “Bingo. I would.”

At the door Knock Out turned back. “Feel like watching my race? I’ll get you primo seats.” A peace offering.

Races and crowds: two things Breakdown hated.

“More than one?” It was a cheap shot. “Never know. Might need two by then.”

Knock Out snorted. Caught himself. Planted a quick kiss on Breakdown’s breastplate, as he had for so many mornings—and squeezed his belly affectionately. In a cycle he was gone. And Breakdown was left standing at the door, feeling slow and irritated, and absently kneading his stomach where Knock Out’s hand had been.

“Sweet Solus Prime, Breakdown!” 

The lobbing ball crashed to the ground, loud as a thunderclap. Breakdown’s fans roared; he’d downed his partner in a flying tackle.

“Oops.” Roughly he clambered to his feet, offering her a hand. “Was aiming for Bulkhead.” Across the icy lot he caught Bulkhead’s gaze. Smirked. “Not sure how I missed. He’s a big target.”

Bulkhead grimaced, shaking his head. “Real funny.”

Breakdown’s partner eyed him sidelong. “Primus, that smarts. Aren’t Velocitronians usually—y’know—” Her optics flickered to his belly. She swallowed. “Skinny?”

Bulkhead was watching him; they were all watching him. In the frigid air he was steaming, his faceplate warm. 

His mesh felt warmer still, cozier; it’d broken his fall, cushioning his engine. If he wasn’t careful, Breakdown reflected, he’d start to like it.

“I upgraded.” His voice was casual. Cocky. “Throw that ball over here—unless you wanna use Bulkhead.”

He felt mean. Tough. Big.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some absolutely wonderful (romantic and adorable) Knock Out/Breakdown art floating around Chubformers Tumblr right now (https://borborgimmie.tumblr.com/post/638801114165346304/he-loves-his-chonky-husband-edit-fic-i).
> 
> As this fic stands, Breakdown's closing in on that size fast.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Knock Out encounters an old rival and grapples with some unsettling gossip. Breakdown throws his weight around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Diabla and Deadheat are/were playable characters from Transformers Universe.

“—over there, the fat one. With the oil drum.”

One night blended into another; his chronometer ticked off solar cycles wearily. His shoulders kept a silent count of shifts at the foundry, and every punch that Breakdown laughed off deepened the ache in his circuitry. And every sip of fuel lingered, too.

 _The fat one._ An unsettling thought, that his belly now overshadowed his height.

His head swam; his tanks gurgled, content. _Primary fuel tank at 99% capacity._ He felt every liter of it. Breakdown leaned back against the bar, taking the pressure off his belly. “You want something?”

It was nearly closing time, and the _Dirty Mudflap_ was all but deserted. By the greasy window sat two slim bots, their biolights tinting the night blue and violet.

The mech chuckled, lacing slender fingers. Lit from behind, his red armor looked black, its electric-blue decals ghostly. _"Breakdown._ Didn’t recognize you. The Blue Thunder, they used to call you on the boxing circuit—”

“News to me,” rumbled Breakdown, tasting acid and Visco. Every word seemed a strain. He was too full for this. “Should I know you?”

 _"The Velocitronian,"_ said the two-wheeler, showing her teeth. “Looks like he’s retired for good, huh, Deadheat?”

A name he’d hated. His tanks churned.

“You’ve got five nanocycles—” A sharp belch escaped him, and the pressure eased. Deadheat snorted, as if offended. Breakdown found he didn’t mind. “—before I cram the girl up your tailpipe."

“Breakdown,” said the barmech behind him, warningly.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll take it outside.” Breakdown stretched, limbering up with a crack of pistons. The Visco roiled in him, loosening his vocoder. “Takes me a klik to get up these days. I’ll give you a head start.”

He _was_ fat. It was undeniable now. The rivets on his belly-plating felt strained to bursting, and his gut jiggled now with any movement. In the shadow peeling across the wall, he saw himself clearly: the broad shoulders; the jutting chestplate; the roll of mesh beneath, thick as his tires. He saw himself—and his gaze lingered, intrigued.

Still it stung to hear it from them.

Deadheat stiffened. He moved too fluidly, like a racer; Breakdown knew racers too well. “Easy, Breakdown. Let’s all be pals. Besides—” A glow pulsed behind his smooth mouthguard. “We’re in different _leagues."_

Breakdown cracked his knuckles, one by one. The night felt suffocatingly quiet.

“Knock Out and I go way back,” drawled Deadheat. He leaned back, shadow swamping him. “Beat him fair and square in the Nova Cronum Underground. We’re old, _old_ friends.”

It was all the reason Breakdown needed.

“After I get done with you,” he rumbled, feeling the reverberation deep in his tanks, “maybe he’ll put you back together.”

 _"Doc Knock,_ they’re calling him now.” The femme ran a finger along a seam in her forearm. Readying a weapon, Breakdown knew, and his fists curled hungrily. “Doing a honest solar cycle’s work, I heard. Moving up in the world. Might pick up a cuter conjunx—”

Breakdown heaved himself to his feet, his pistons grinding. The weight of his tanks and his belly pulled him off-balance; for an instant he teetered drunkenly, tanks sloshing. “You get outside or I _throw_ you out.”

Every word churned his aching gut. He felt the weight of every bite of fuel he’d ever taken, weighing him down. The HUD prompt blazed: _Main tank capacity warning. Redirect to long-term storage?_

With a groan of relief he accepted. His systems engaged, stirring from his tank a long echoing growl. The two small-timers must have heard it, and Deadheat’s brow ridges rose; and Breakdown’s wiring blazed hot.

They scattered. He followed, each step heavier than the last. “You’re in _my_ league now, pipsqueak—” His laugh echoed in the night. On the threshold of the bar the air hit him, bracingly cold and acrid; Breakdown savored it, sucking it through his vents. “—and you racers can’t take a punch.”

He felt massive; he felt solid as iron.

“Know a piece of work calling himself Deadheat?”

In the dead joors of the early morning he’d found Knock Out sprawled across two chairs, tightening his bolts. The habsuite smelled of sharp racer-oil, of fresh polish. “Tell me you totaled him.”

“Nah. Guess he figured he could outrun me. Wasn’t wrong.” The electric joy had worn off, and it hurt to laugh. His frame rumbled; he felt his belly quake. Lately it had a mind of its own. “Friend of yours?”

“More of a knock-off. Chose the wrong bot to scare, eh?” Beneath the gleaming polish, Knock Out looked worn-down. Thin. “Give me a little traction. Put your hand—there.”

Breakdown obliged, leaning down with a creak; his joints needed oiling, and beneath his weight his fans labored, overtaxed. His belly nudged his thighs; gravity pressed gently, agonizingly on his leaden tanks. He could bend no further.

Knock Out watched him, optics bright and fascinated.

In all their stellar cycles together, Knock Out had never tired of watching him. Breakdown had accepted it, grudgingly: the price of intimacy.

But now the air crackled hot around them. Knock Out’s headlights blazed in the gloom; his motor hitched. For an instant he looked starved, or else like a newspark discovering desire for the first time—

“You’re getting slower,” said Knock Out abruptly, with a skittish laugh. “No prizes for guessing why.”

_Slow_ had been a killing insult in the Velocitronian underworld; _heavy_ had come with a snicker and a sneer. He’d broken arms over it. Racers, he’d found, had scant armor—

—and nothing to cushion their circuits against a blow. 

Weight was protection. The thought lingered in his processor. With every fresh kilo he felt sturdier, thicker: a dreadnought of a mech. His stomach felt as heavy as his breastplate, a constant soft tug forward. On nights alone, he hefted it—all of it—in both hands. Amazed, in the private depths of his Spark, by its solid weight.

If anything, he felt stronger. In blind alleys drenched in neon light, he twisted arms and dented breastplates. Perhaps it was his drunken imagination—but he moved like an earthquake.

“You know what they say about slow and steady?” he growled, a tar-thick laugh bubbling up. He laughed with his whole body now, his gut shaking.

And another night, pinning a heaving Bulkhead against the frost-slick street: “Pick on somebody your own size, huh?”

“You’re a real riot, Breakdown.” Engex-spiked steam leaked from both their bodies, melting the ice on contact. Bulkhead thrashed, pistons pounding; with every jerk his whole body rumbled. Beneath plating thinner than Breakdown’s, he was tremendously fat. “What—” He punctuated it with heaves. “—do—you— _want?"_

They grappled, entangled like lovers, belly-to-belly; through pudgy mesh and dense armor their engines growled. Bulkhead’s armor scraped the iron street, spitting sparks.

Breakdown shivered with sharp delight. “There’s no master plan.” It came out fevered. “Just enjoying myself.”

That night he self-serviced with an almost-violent desperation, remembering how Bulkhead’s body had felt beneath him: how solid he’d been, and yet how soft. With a dark tingle he wondered if Bulkhead could reach his own connector. Imagined him gently lifting up his gut, armor squeaking—

Breakdown’s overload blinded him. For cycles he lay sprawled in the berth, hot and shaking, feeling he might catch fire any klik.

“Primus,” he mumbled, grinning lazily up at the ceiling. Lately his overloads were as satisfying as stuffing himself to capacity—almost.

He was, he told himself, an ordinary mech with simple tastes. He loved slim bots, lightning-quick bots, with smiles so cruel they’d electrify his fuel lines. Racers drove him mad: their blistering speed; the way their armor sat _just so_ on wire-taut cables; their easy superiority.

 _Heavy_ was a curse on Velocitronian lips; from a Velocitronian vocoder, _fat_ sounded obscene. On the foundry floors of Iacon, Breakdown laughed off “ _big fella_ ,” but warily.

On their rare nights together, Knock Out took to calling him “chubby hubby.” That, Breakdown found, he didn’t mind at all.

Nor did he mind the food. Knock Out brought home steaming tanks of crude-oil stews that stuck to the fuel lines; other nights he produced calcite chunks swimming in sweet sauces. Always he had an excuse: “some tender-Spark bought goodies for the whole class” was a favorite.

(Breakdown played along.)

“Big engine like yours needs a lot of fuel,” Knock Out murmured every time, like a ritual. His optics flickered on and off, lighting their berth a sleazy red. He’d been too drained to ‘face for quartexes. “Eat up, chunky monkey-wrench.”

Breakdown ate, obediently. With every swallow he watched his fuel gauges tick upward. Pleasantly he ached; with every swallow his tanks grew heavier, stressing his wiring. And the familiarity nagged at him: the blunt satisfaction of being stretched past his limits—of _taking it all—_

It felt inexplicably intimate. As if they were still near-strangers; as if Knock Out were, for the first time, watching him self-service.

(Ridiculous. Stupid. The eager purr of his engine had nothing to do with sex.)

Knock Out settled into his lap, his weight a shock; Breakdown growled, low and startled, and leaned back. Still his belly sat soft and heavy in his lap, occupying most of it. (It touched his thighs now, a gentle weight on his connector-plate.) His rivets squeaked beneath the strain.

He let out a tiny, hissing belch. The pressure eased, but barely.

“Manners.” Knock Out whistled, optics flashing. The distant light of Iacon, streaming through the window, cast a ghostly and drained light over him; yet his gaze was tense. “You are _delicious."_

That was one word for it. His armor gave his softness shape, the plates barely overlapping now. His rivets ached, a constant stitch in his side. At his flanks, pinched by armor-seams, his mesh bunched newly into plump rolls: an odd feeling.

“Getting pretty big, huh?” It was a struggle to speak. His vents sputtered, steaming; his plating itched. Still he took another gulp of cloyingly-sweet fuel, and then another. With the building pressure in his tanks, his hydraulics squealed, and his connector swelled against its plate. Against the deadweight of his stomach.

(Not big enough.)

He swallowed, his intake clicking. His tanks growled. Molasses-sweet crude oil he smelled on the air, and ozone.

Gently Knock Out’s claws explored in the dark, scratching ever-so-lightly over raw-metal stress marks. “Could say that.”

He felt strong and invulnerable; he felt ripe and tender and sensual. Gradually he swelled, his belly bulging proudly over his pelvic plating and wrapping round his sides. Two quartexes ago he’d been able to hold it in, flattening his armor. No longer.

After a few solar cycles he stopped trying. He swaggered; he threw punches; he took up space. He gorged himself, then gorged himself again joors later.

In shadows and in reflections he caught glimpses of himself: a sturdy, broad-bellied mech with a strut in his stance, solid as an ironworks. He’d never been vain; he’d had little to be proud of. Yet he caught himself looking.

He felt his heft on every step. Weight was momentum; weight was inertia.

A stellar cycle ago he’d been nearly lean. But he was settling into his body now, as if he’d been forged fat.

 _Settling into._ Knock Out’s words, as he watched Breakdown huff and vent climbing the steps to their habsuite. “You’ll get used to it. Always takes a stellar cycle or two to settle into a new frame.” Knock Out, the inveterate body-modder. The surgeon. Knock Out, who was modding his frame slowly and sweetly—

By daylight they avoided the subject, when they saw each other at all.

“—could trim a few kilos off you, Deadheat,” drawled Knock Out nearby. “Starting with the legs.”

Breakdown froze, tasting warm copper. Through the medical library’s glass cubicles and teetering data banks he cast a massive shadow; even after-joors, when the deserted library hummed with static, he felt conspicuous. Huge.

All at once he was ashamed again, or else he realized he’d been ashamed all along.

Knock Out’s voice was unmistakable: exhausted and sharp. “Hear you’ve met my conjunx. He’s a bit of a surgeon himself. Dab hand at amputations.”

Breakdown moved closer. Every step was an earthquake. Surely they heard him.

“You could do better,” observed Deadheat, and Breakdown tasted hot Energon: he’d bitten his lip. “Between you and me.”

“I like ‘em heavy-duty. A little something to wrestle.” Through the frosted glass Knock Out’s outline was blurred. He slung one leg over the other, kicking his heels up on the carrel.

Grudgingly Breakdown admired that: the indifference. (Though surely Knock Out was seething, as Breakdown was seething.)

Deadheat leaned against the wall, clicking his vocoder. “They’re saying more than _that,_ Doc Knock.”

The night went quiet. The blue-white LEDs set into the wall pulsed, casting a stark and sterile light over the library.

Breakdown tensed, already hearing the insult.

“A couple of _expats_ of my acquaintance are saying,” Deadheat pressed, “you’re a bit of a fueler.”

Fighting words. The air crackled with static.

Breakdown closed the distance in a single step, grabbing Deadheat’s shoulder and whipping him round. “Sorry. Didn’t hear that.”

Deadheat’s biolights blazed, tinging the glass walls a poisonous blue. Beneath Breakdown’s fingers he felt fragile. Insubstantial. “Breakdown. The mech of the joor. Your conjunx and I were just—” His faceplate glowed, plates shifting with a click.

Racers were lightweight—and so easy to break.

Behind him, Knock Out was on his feet, sputtering with anger. Breakdown caught his blazing optics. An understanding passed between them: _later._

“Leaving, huh? You were just leaving.” Breakdown twisted the joint, testing its resistance. Wires popped. Deadheat’s fans hissed and spat. Carelessly Breakdown slammed him against the wall; carelessly he leaned in, digging a knee into Deadheat’s groin. “You wanna _wrestle_ with me, pipsqueak?”

His breastplate pinned Deadheat’s shoulders, thrusting his chin back; his gut, soft deadweight, crushed Deadheat’s flat belly. An oddly intimate posture.

He moved differently now. _Fought_ differently. Every click of his hydraulics reminded him: he was outgrowing his old self. 

And Deadheat had noticed. Every last bot in Iacon had.

“Is that a come-on?” purred Knock Out, stepping into the corridor. Still he looked rattled, his lips thin and his optics narrowed. Through the high windows filtered the radiant glow of Upper Iacon, giving him a bright desperate look. “He should be so lucky.”

In the end they let Deadheat go, with a growled warning and a few scratches to tell the tale. 

On the drive home they talked, lightly, about everything and nothing; they stopped at a tatty canteen for their nightly fuel. As ever, Knock Out ordered heavily and ate lightly.

“No reason to talk about—” Knock Out gestured vaguely. They were perched on the landing outside their habsuite, the warmth of their bodies melting the crystallized condensation. “This. Spoils a good time.”

Silvery vapor drifted in vast clouds over Lower Iacon, borne up by jets of hot air from the refineries. To the north, Upper Iacon glowed like a hazy dream.

Breakdown ripped the foil packet open, sucking sour and fiery steam into his vents. His tanks roiled, making room; his chemoreceptors tingled; and as he reached for the first copper nugget, his belly weighed him down, round and hefty and satisfied. (Every kilo of it him.)

He felt like some brute Insecticon, some Predacon out of legend, all shameless appetite—

It warmed his fuel lines; it chilled his Spark, just a little.

“Knock Out?”

Knock Out avoided his gaze, taking a long slurp of broth. “Ask me no questions and I’ll give you no scrap.”

On other nights Breakdown might have groaned, or else fixed him with a stare. Yet Breakdown’s voice was small. Uncertain. “What are we—uh—what are we _doing?"_

_We._

“Should recharge,” said Knock Out, a manic glint in his optic. “Don’t think I can. Imagine. I’m too _tired_ to power down.”

For long cycles they stared at the sky, at the towers and domes haloed in a distant, frosty light. Breakdown wiped condensation from his armor, leaning back against Knock Out’s body (so small and so strong). Silently he ate, sucking the chalcanthite from the copper, and his tanks rumbled and hissed. Turning the fuel, slowly, to soft, overfed mesh.

“You know why I quit boxing?” said Breakdown, in that same small voice. A voice that didn’t suit him, he thought.

“Give me the _short_ list.”

They both laughed, nervously. Knock Out squeezed his thigh, claw-tip hooking into a gap in the plating. A fresh gap, still sensitive. So his thighs were getting thicker, then. He wondered—with shock and horror and joy, with a bolt of heat in his belly—if in the coming quartexes, he’d start to waddle.

He found the words, so uncomfortably simple. He was too full and too weary to lie. “Don’t like getting stared at.”

“Mm,” said Knock Out, and his bright eyes went wide and dark as the night sky. “Can’t relate.”

The absurdity hit Breakdown; he laughed, helplessly, a deep rolling guffaw that shook his belly. (The sweetest feeling.) “What in the _Allspark_ are we doing?”

For nine solar cycles after that, Knock Out recharged at the cadaver lab. It was, Breakdown supposed with mingled annoyance and amusement, one way to avoid answering a question.

He swaggered; he blustered; he threw his weight around, in the back rooms of Iacon’s scummiest dives. He took bets (and lost most of them). He took dishonest jobs (and spent the take).

In public he ate heartily, alone at the bar, a hulking shadow. During his meals he picked no fights; for the most part he was ignored. (Though at the _Dirty Mudflap_ there were whispers no glare or snarl could quash.) In private—

—in private, he indulged. Half-watching Megatronus’s speeches—and they were _speeches_ now, and they bored Breakdown—he made himself second helpings. Thirds. The habsuite smelled perpetually of butane and crude oil. He snacked his way through rewiring a skydart that could never have held his weight.

He grew fatter, seemingly by the solar cycle. His gut bounced pleasantly as he ambled around the habsuite. (Sometimes he patted it just to feel it jiggle. A secret, shameful joy.) 

His shadow loomed. Perhaps it was his imagination—but his voice seemed more resonant. More authoritative. Meaner.

In public—

“Breakdown. _Big_ bully Breakdown.” It was the two-wheeler femme who’d backed up Deadheat. She rapped needle-sharp fingers on the bar, her green optics aglow. “No hard feelings?”

He set down his oil drum, leaning back. His rivets whined. “I’m a big fan of hard feelings. You interrupting me for a reason?”

Her designation was Diabla; she was a hired gun; she was all hard feelings.

“Mech like you,” she said one night as they counted their take, “could do pretty well in Kaon. ”

“I’m doing pretty well here.” Breakdown did a quick calculation, his datapad fizzling. “Jackpot. My tab’s paid.”

“The gladiators’ city,” she said, striking her cy-garette against the groove in her arm. “Plenty of bots your own size.” Barbed words.

“Little guys fly farther when I hit ‘em.” He drained his oil drum, settling his tanks with a solid thump. _Main fuel tank capacity at 96%._ “Leave it. I’ve got a conjunx here.”

“It’s a racer’s city, wide-load.” Even in the near-darkness Diabla glittered. She was starkly thin, scarcely armored. “Racers and Councilors and data clerks. Whole north belongs to ‘em. That’s your ‘junx’s world. Sure as Solus Prime’s shiny hitch, isn’t your world. When things get ugly—and you have no _idea_ how ugly they’ll get, fat boy, and it’s gonna be soon—”

He cracked his knuckles, one by one, the Visco souring in his mouth. “Shut up.”

“—Knock Out’s gonna leave your chunky aft to rust.”

Breakdown was welding his knuckles when Knock Out stumbled in, armor frosted over.

“You should see the other guy.”

Knock Out squeezed his shoulders, absently. Melted frost trickled from his fender, spattering the floor. “What a _night._ Whipped Deadheat until he was a nanocycle from bawling. I’d lay money on it.”

Breakdown leaned back; his chair creaked beneath his bulk. (A new development.) “Wish I’d been there.”

A white lie. He’d had his fill of racers.

Knock Out’s engine fumes were thin and weak; there was a hungry, searching look in his optics. “Those junkers ask about you.” He leaned in, taking Breakdown’s chin and tilting his face. His kiss tasted of burnt rubber and the frozen streets. As always, he patted Breakdown’s stomach.

Breakdown pulled away, and Knock Out whistled low and slow. “Feisty.”

Breakdown groped for words. Condensation dripped steadily from the window to his grimy workbench. “You ashamed of me?”

Knock Out’s vents snapped open. He sucked air, his mouth going tight. “Don’t know the meaning of shame.”

Yet Breakdown knew him too well. In Knock Out’s optics he thought he saw a spark of guilt.

“You tell ‘em I’m your chubby little secret?” He turned, chair legs scraping with a clunk. 

Knock Out stepped back, folding his arms, his faceplate shocked. (Breakdown didn’t mind.) _"Breakdown—”_

“Take a real good look.” Breakdown shifted his weight, his rivets squealing. Any nanocycle, it seemed, they’d blow. “This what you wanted? Fat enough for you yet?”

It was choked with anger, as if a clogged fuel line had released and flooded him with rage. The golden glow of his optics reflected, molten-hot, in Knock Out’s icy faceplate.

 _"I’m_ not the one stuffing you until you pop, Breakdown. Look in the mirror, will you?”

At the two-shanix public baths he stared at cracked and spotted mirrors, trying through the steam to see what Knock Out saw.

He was outgrowing his plating. Beneath his breastplate his belly stuck out, fat and round and bulging. His armor was stretched to its limit, the plating gapping over his underbelly. Coppery mesh shone through. His thighs had thickened sweetly, beginning to rub at the top; his walk _was_ changing, heavier and more purposeful. Every movement counted.

He turned, staring. Biting his lip. Feeling dizzyingly exposed—feeling quartexes of eating all too visible. Every bite showed. _He’d_ done this.

Two tons, perhaps. Or three. Knock Out would’ve known—Knock Out, whose business it was to know.

Breakdown stared at himself and felt, for the first time, pride.

  
  


“Breakdown?” mumbled Knock Out through a haze of sleep. They’d not spoken for solar cycles, in the berth or out of it. “Planning to stop before you blow a rivet?”

His belly was deadweight between them, pushing Knock Out away. They’d not yet learned to adjust for it. Breakdown hauled himself up on one elbow, with a tremendous creak. “You want me to?”

Knock Out blinked, looking unsettled. By himself, perhaps, and what he wanted. “How big d’you plan to get?”

He could’ve given a million answers. None came to mind. He chose the truth.

“I don’t know.”

“Yeah,” he said to Diabla, half a quartex later. Breakdown slouched languidly. His size did all the work. “Yeah, I’m going to the Rodion Irregular.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breakdown gets tough. Knock Out gets vicious.

“Trouble with the conjunx?”

A draft cold enough to fracture fuel lines rolled through the _Dirty Mudflap;_ one window had been shattered in the early joors of the morning, and two more had been etched with barely-legible slogans. So salvaged metal panels, welded hastily together, kept out the night.

“The conjunx _is_ trouble. _I’m_ trouble.” Breakdown switched off his cy-garette, watching the smoke dissipate in the breeze. “Yeah. Sure, he’s kinda—” Two handfuls of wheelnuts found their way into his mouth while he thought. “—self-absorbed. Narcissistic. Uh. He means well.”

Knock Out did.

“Send another Visco my way,” he added hastily, to change the topic.

The barmech’s brow ridges rose. He’d been roughed up, from the dings in his paint. “Not sure I can, pal. We’re running short.”

A gust battered at the welded-up windows, and the lobbing match on the holoscreens stuttered and froze. 

“You’re kidding,” said Breakdown.

“Wish I were. Demand’s high.” With a nervous grin the barmech indicated Breakdown’s empty oil drum. “upply’s way down. Halogen’s talking about rationing—him and Ratbat—”

Breakdown shifted on his barstool with a soft _oof,_ supporting himself with both arms on the bar. He was outgrowing the stool, his belly spilling against the bar no matter how he squirmed. (An annoyance. The booths were looking small.) “Hey, Bulkhead. You’ve got a lot to answer for.”

“I’m not in the mood, Breakdown.” From his corner Bulkhead barely glanced up. In his massive shadow sat tight-lipped femmes and surly mechs, and beside him the scarred white bot _—Jackie—_ who’d once made a crack about his weight—

(Funny to remember that. He’d been so lean.)

Breakdown leaned back, spreading his thighs to make room for his stomach. “You’re looking _healthy."_

In the bars and the canteens, prices soared. Rumors circulated on the Grid: a Tarnian mineshaft had been bombed by seditionists; the High Council was diverting relief funds. Breakdown wrote it off as gossip.

He strode through Lower Iacon like a freighter, vast and implacable. Crowds parted around him. Beneath his weight his engine roared, throwing off waves of shimmering heat; as he leaned against windows, sucking cool air through his vents, meltwater trickled in grimy rivulets down the glass.

His engine labored; his appetite grew. So did he.

His belly spilled out of both hands now, its weight staggering. To his annoyance, his thighs’ plating pinched; “thunder thighs,” Knock Out whispered at night, running a worshipful hand along the widening seam.

On balance, Breakdown decided, he liked the attention.

“You like ‘em?”

Knock Out nuzzled his belly, his own efficient engine whirring; Breakdown decided he liked that, too. “What a question.”

“Buy you a drink, handsome?”

He’d stepped into Maccadam’s, in search of a _samizdat_ -publisher. A job was a job; he’d rough up anyone, from Councilor to skiv. Steady work kept his belly full (almost).

Still Maccadam’s unsettled him: the _clean_ smell of the place; the mid-caste crowd, slim and well-maintained; the cozy air. Breakdown stood head and shoulders above the patrons. For a nanocycle he wondered if the barstool would hold him—

“Big bot. Hey. I’m talking to you.” The voice was somewhere around his breastplate. A cool, manicured tone.

Breakdown turned. “Handsome, huh? That’s a new one.” Despite himself, he smirked, squaring his shoulders. His belly’s plating creaked, threateningly.

The slim data clerk regarded him with unabashed wonder. His turquoise optics glinted. “You look like a guy who can take care of himself. Call that whatever you want.”

And before Breakdown could react, the data clerk reached down and patted his underbelly. His plating gapped there, and the clerk’s fingertips brushed velvety mesh. The intimacy was staggering—but not so staggering as the rush, the shock, of being _wanted._

“Hey. Hands to yourself, runt.” He chuckled, weakly. It had been too long. “My conjunx—”

The clerk pulled away, with an abashed mutter of “my mistake,” saving Breakdown from finishing the sentence.

By night he self-serviced, puffing and venting. With his free hand he held his belly out of the way. He’d fantasized about that; it was reality now, undeniable as the scorching-hot weight in his hands.

Hotter still was the transfluid that spattered his gut, glowing with electricity. Breakdown slumped back with a satisfied groan. His optics offlined, his HUD going blank. Drained of battery, he laughed; his belly wobbled, and he laughed harder at that, his vocoder spitting white noise.

Absurd to think of himself as a _stud._ To think of his weight as—

“Darnedest thing,” said Knock Out thoughtfully. The steam rising from his broth painted wet swirls on the window-frost. “Had a mech in the clinic last night asking for a little _padding."_

“You tell him to eat up?” Breakdown tested the pan with a fingertip; it sizzled. He bent low with a grunt, his belly—still achingly full from last night—protesting with a gurgle. _95% capacity._ “Worked for me.”

A tacit admission: on some murky level so deep in his kernel he could never have untangled it, he knew _exactly_ what he was doing.

“I’ll say.”

He felt Knock Out’s appraising gaze on his thick thighs and wide back, where the mounds of mesh on his flanks strained his armor. He’d grown a hefty roll of back-mesh, he knew; he felt it beneath his seams, bulging over his pelvic girdle. (Knock Out’s hand found his lower back so often now, his fingertips slipping between the plates.)

Breakdown shivered. His voice was gruffer than usual; a stranger might’ve taken the rough burr in his vocoder for sleepiness. “You talked him out of it, didn’t you?”

An accusation.

“Now, Breakdown. I’m a big believer in the golden rule: he who’s got the gold, rules. His body, his Shanix, his choice.” Breakdown heard the smirk. “I offered him fillers. Silicone and steel on the thighs. Iron and vulcanized rubber on the shoulders. Best I could do. Not much call for a little extra in the racing circles—”

“You’re telling me,” growled Breakdown, absently sampling his stew. More mercury sauce, he decided; for good measure he threw in a dash of savory iron filings. “He say why he wanted—”

“Not really. He was a foreman, rumor has it, down in the loading docks—where the sun _really_ doesn’t shine—”

Knock Out was avoiding the question.

“Might’ve seen me and gotten jealous.” Breakdown allowed himself a grin at the image. “Everyone’s hungry. Maybe not at the Academy—but, you know. Everyone.”

“Doubt it.” 

Breakdown turned. Knock Out seemed diminished, his faceplate dull and his smile perfunctory. Still his body, lean and sculpted, was perfect—

—a telling choice of words. Breakdown felt a wave of unease. “Suppose I got on your table. Would you cut me down?”

Knock Out held his gaze. The air between them shimmered.

“Truth be told,” said Knock Out in a professional tone, a tone that brooked no argument, “I’d loosen that armor. Your tummy’s bursting out of it.”

It was; still Breakdown bristled, for no reason he could name. “The armor’s fine. Answer the question.”

Knock Out kicked his heels up on the shabby table, folding his arms. “Breakdown. _I_ might have a—tiny little fetish—” A little sputter of the fans. Even Breakdown, who’d known him for countless stellar cycles, could not read his expression. “—but thin’s still in.”

The aerodynamics surgeons of Iacon were diligent, and the upper castes remarkably trim.

“Some of ‘em have standing appointments twice a stellar cycle,” Knock Out had explained once, with a conspiratorial little leer. “Naturally, can’t say who.”

It’d been a practical specialty once: developed in Vos, in the earliest days of a standing Air Command. (Breakdown remembered the textbooks; he’d read them, stumbling over the jargon, to a half-awake Knock Out.) The _aesthetic_ applications had not gone unnoticed for long.

On Velocitron, there’d been no distinction. Speed was beauty, and beauty speed. What could be more practical than that?

So the elite and the aspiring, to a bot, had their indulgences trimmed away. Fat bellies were decidedly _d_ _éc_ _lass_ _é._ (Another word he’d learned from Knock Out.) The mark of a mech who didn’t know, or couldn’t afford, better.

“—and _greed,_ my friends, will starve our peaceful federation—”

Halogen’s violet optic glowed like a fireball; his voice echoed from every holoscreen in the _Dirty Mudflap._

“—pack of Scraplets, grown fat on the fruits of our labor—”

“He means you, Bulkhead. You’re famous.” Still Breakdown watched, transfixed with anger. He leaned forward over the bar, his stomach settling heavily into his lap.

“He’s one to talk about fair shares,” observed the barmech, ghostly in reflected violet. “How long’s he been angling for the Hydrax Plateau?”

Absently Breakdown rubbed his belly, soothing growling tanks. His stress marks itched, streaks of rough metal where his armor was pulling out of shape. “My conjunx mighta worked on him. Trimmed him down a little.” 

Disbelieving stares flickered from round the room. A dozen gazes found his gut and lingered there.

His rage flared in his chest.

“Never said what he does for a living, did I?” He hiccupped. His gut vibrated as he spoke, the soft underbelly clinking. “Med student. Weight-loss surgery.”

Breakdown paid his tab with a sharp gesture, his chip clicking and sparking in his forearm. He rose, unbalanced by the weight of his belly, and lumbered with a sway to the door.

“ _Somebody’s_ got an appetite,” murmured Knock Out sleepily.

They sat arm-in-arm on the fire stairs, watching meteors streak like motes of dust through the sky.

“Got something to prove.” He was tanked still, and so full he tasted Visco and chalcanthite in the back of his intake. Breakdown could not, he felt, have risen if he’d tried. “Knock Out?”

Knock Out’s arm slipped lower, around Breakdown’s waist. “Shoot.” Breakdown smelled polish, though Knock Out’s finish looked almost dingy; he’d been vague all night. (Exhausted, Breakdown thought.)

“How much you think I weigh?”

It came out a strained buzz. His aux tank was filling fast, pressing on his engine block.

Knock Out’s optics flew open. “Uh—”

He’d been unprepared for this; that much was clear.

“Let’s say to the nearest half a ton,” growled Breakdown. The crystals melted in his mouth, trickling sugar-sweet down his intake. Sweets took up so little room. He _could,_ he thought, eat more. “No point getting too specific. Gonna be a few kilos more tomorrow.”

The icy air around Knock Out seemed to glow a hazy blue, as if the night itself were flushing. “Breakdown. You _torture_ me.”

He’d choked down dozens of sweet petroleum-balls; he’d gobbled oilcakes until he’d felt close to bursting, letting out pained little belches after each one. Knock Out had watched, entranced.

“C’mon,” breathed Breakdown. He was slowing between bites, his vents rattling. _Auxiliary tank at 83% capacity._ “Guess.”

“You were a stocky sixteen and a half,” said Knock Out, tilting his head. “Now—mm. That tummy alone—”

He glanced at Breakdown with a doctor’s optics. There was nothing professional in his low whistle.

“At a rough estimate, I’d put you at twenty. And a half. A nice—” He rolled it around his mouth. “ _Round_ number.”

Breakdown was too full to laugh; as his vents whistled, a sharp pain spread through his side, his rivets digging into the plump mesh. His connector twitched eagerly, at the number or at the tremendous weight of his overstuffed belly on its plate.

“You want me to stop?” he asked, after a cycle. “Twenty’s good. I can stop at twenty.”

Their gazes met. Knock Out glanced away again, chuckling uneasily. “Sounds like you’d be _disappointed."_

A thousand things swirled in Breakdown’s mind: desire and appetite, if there was any difference between the two; spite and pride and swagger. For this he had no words. “Yeah.”

“It’s your body.” And then, in a voice so uncertain it did not sound like Knock Out: “Let’s play a little game. Let’s see how much we can plump you up—”

“—before your race."

From Knock Out’s expression, hazy in the frosty air, he’d not expected that.

He’d needed no permission to eat; he’d asked no permission.

But it was a _game_ now.

He set a standing subroutine: _redirect fuel over 85% capacity automatically to long-term storage._ And he ate, voraciously: molasses-thick mugs of Tarnian sweet-crude, a miner’s hearty drink; sticky tarballs that glued his teeth together; greasy, savory pig-iron, shallow-fried in petroleum. Rich food. His tanks whined. He was always stuffed, rarely hungry; he ate anyway.

Breakdown rubbed his belly with a knuckle between jobs, soothing his protesting fuel system. In back rooms and back alleys he sprawled menacingly, taking up the space of three bots. As he and Diabla counted their take, he guzzled Visco and sweet-crude.

“Deadheat and Knock Out have a history, huh?” His knuckles ached satisfyingly; so did his belly. With an industrial creak he shifted, trying to relieve the pressure.

Every sip would round him out a little more, turning to fat mesh. A disconcertingly charged thought.

“Like Blurr and Drag Strip,” said Diabla, striking her cy-garette on her forearm, “but lower-rent.”

Breakdown shrugged; he didn’t follow racing.

“If your boy-toy’s smart, he’ll get out of that life.” She snorted. “Lotta little speed-freaks want a rematch. Or to slash his tires. Maybe both.”

In the streets outside, someone was chanting a revolutionary slogan. Breakdown turned—it took both hands and a solid effort—to watch the shadows shift on the frosted-over window.

“What,” said Diabla, with ill-hidden glee, “didn’t he tell you? Maybe you boys ain’t as close as you thought.”

It hurt; he’d not expected it to hurt, as if by burying his Spark chamber beneath tons of mesh he’d made himself invulnerable.

“My hammer’s gonna get real cozy with your scrawny aft.” He did a creditable impression, he thought, of indifference—

“Look at you, all proud of yourself.” Diabla snickered. It hit home like a static shock. “Your ‘junxy might like riding your big fat bumper in the berth, but he sure as the Pit isn’t gonna have you on his arm at the afterparties—”

By night Knock Out filed down his stress-marks, delicately; with steady hands, though his optics were dim with weariness, he worked warm polishes into the metal.

“Hey,” Breakdown tried. “I’m no soft Councilor. You don’t have to—”

Their habsuite’s lights flickered. The power grid was strained of late; rumors spoke of sabotage.

“May not be a Councilor, Breakdown, but you sure are _soft."_ Knock Out knelt between Breakdown’s spread thighs, as if in prayer. The rag squeaked on Breakdown’s grille. “ _Look_ at all this pudge. Decadent.”

“You like it?” Breakdown shivered pleasantly. In bar-fights his gu felt like armor; beneath Knock Out’s hands it was exquisitely vulnerable. He’d packed away three takeaway orders, from powdery white talc to sweet lead, and he felt ready to burst.

Knock Out planted a sharp kiss on his grille, his synthesizer clicking. Warm air condensed between them, trickling pearly-bright down Knock Out’s cheek. “Love it.”

His gaze was sincere. Sincerity from Knock Out was startling—Breakdown swallowed hard, feeling his faceplate burn.

“You wanna—”

“Connector’s down for maintenance.” A cold little laugh. Knock Out glanced away, then back. “What a quartex. Left my libido on the track.”

And that was perhaps more of a shock.

Breakdown leaned down; he could bend only so far, his gut sitting obstinately in his lap and protesting any pressure. “Knock Out. You _okay?"_

“Peachy,” said Knock Out, giving Breakdown’s knee a pat. “Lift up your tummy. Growing boy like you could use some loving.”

Breakdown obeyed; Breakdown usually obeyed. His freshly-polished belly left warm stains on his hands. Its sheer weight felt breathtaking; in the Iacon underworld none were stronger than he, yet beneath his own bulk he felt pleasantly burdened.

That alone sent a shockwave through him. His connector pressurized with a hiss, the hydraulic lines tightening.

 _Lift up your tummy._ It reverberated in his processor. His belly buried his connector when he sat.

Knock Out’s optics flickered, the LEDs sparking and dying; he’d not recharged well in solar cycles, perhaps. Yet his face was taut, alert.

And then Knock Out’s lips closed around the tip of his connector, hot and smooth, and Breakdown’s momentary worries dissolved into a pleasant buzz. He shifted, giving Knock Out room between thicker thighs.

He lounged, virile as the prizefighter he’d been, and rubbed deep soothing circles into his bloated belly. In the jittering shadows he saw them silhouetted: a slim, sharp-edged mech kneeling before a tremendously fat one.

Knock Out’s mouth was hot and luscious on the tip of his connector. Breakdown thrust against it, grunting, rutting—

—and Knock Out spat out his connector as the world dissolved. Heat trickled over his armor, seeping with a crackle between the seams. He’d overloaded on his own belly.

Knock Out snickered. Leaned in again. Began to lick him clean.

On such nights it was easy to believe Knock Out adored him.

The night smelled of exhaust fumes and scorched rubber; steam and smoke choked the air, diffusing headlights into an acidic glow. Spilled oil and broken glass littered the alley, crunching under Breakdown’s heels. He followed the voices.

Knock Out had sent coordinates a breem earlier. He’d arrived to find the square deserted.

Now he recognized Knock Out’s purr over the open comms frequencies. “—can resolve this like _mostly_ civilized bots, eh? No need to get hot under the spoiler.”

“You can retire.” Deadheat’s voice was raw, and Breakdown’s right hand twitched. “Like your conjunx retired. You can start eating—until you’re too heavy to ever race again—”

“The horror,” muttered Knock Out, and Breakdown heard the shudder.

“—or we break your axles,” finished Diabla’s voice, with a snicker.

“Is it? _Horror?"_ And Deadheat lapsed back into a (mostly) civilized tone. “You seem pretty pleased with the big fella. Can dish it out but you can’t _eat_ it, huh, Doc Knock? Too good to get a little _thick_ around the middle?”

Knock Out whistled, low and slow. “Well, y’know. Married life. Awfully-wedded, as they say. What Breakdown wants, Breakdown gets—”

Breakdown saw red, blazing like the glow of his headlights in the mist. He picked up speed, thundering down tar-black alleys and through a steam-choked underpass.

“Oh, _Breakdown."_ Diabla snickered again. “Thinks he looks so tough, waddling around the underground with four tons of flab hanging off him. Pathetic.”

Knock Out laughed too, but weakly. “Something like that—”

Breakdown was running now, kicking up glass shards, his fans roaring. It’d been a quartex; it’d been longer. His cables were screaming, stretched red-hot across his broader back—

“What is he now?” purred Diabla. “A super-super _-super_ heavyweight?”

He was closing in on their coordinates, triangulating Knock Out’s voice. Every step felt like an earthquake, shaking his whole body.

“I’m giving you a _choice_ ,” said Deadheat. “There’s your ‘civilized.’ Chubby or maimed. Which is it going to—”

And over their encrypted frequency, Breakdown shot Knock Out a single word: _Duck._.

He exploded into the open street, transforming as he charged; his tires hit the ground with a screech. Breakdown barreled forward, twenty tons of momentum.

Diabla smashed like a boltfly against his grille; a second later Deadheat thudded off his side with a scream.

“Yeah, I might be kinda slow,” he growled, skidding to a stop meters away. “Looks like you’re _slower."_

His mirrors angled with a squeak. Diabla was sitting up gingerly, her arm hanging by a tangle of bright wires. Deadheat lay in a moaning heap. Knock Out had flung himself against a graffiti-smeared wall, optics huge; now he winced, wiping grime and violet paint from his armor. (Some revolutionary symbol. Breakdown didn’t care.)

“C’mon, Knock Out.” Breakdown slammed on the horn; it seemed deeper, more resonant, in his bulkier frame. “Getting a little hot under the spoiler here. Let’s roll before I flatten ‘em.”

“Breakdown—” tried Knock Out as they roared through the night.

Breakdown slammed on the pedals; his weight put a drag on his blazing engine, and he barely kept pace with Knock Out. “Mute it.”

“Alt’s getting tight,” he growled as they transformed. “You like that?”

A challenge. The coppery glow of Lower Iacon’s towering smelters pooled in the deserted lot below their hab; a wind cold enough to blister paint picked up.

“No scrap,” snapped Knock Out.

“Eat.” He slammed a spicy Energon slurry onto the table, so fiercely droplets leapt from the cube. 

Knock Out lounged untroubled in his chair; yet there was a look dull as embers flickering in his optics. “Cheers.”

Breakdown had poured himself a steaming mug of sweet-crude. He settled, grunting with relief, into his own chair. (He filled it—and then some, his pudgy flanks and fat thighs spilling over.) “Now talk.”

“Not much to say, is there?” Knock Out lifted the slurry to his lips. “They’d’ve put some _real_ dings in my paint. I wriggled my way out.”

It was too glib by half.

“They _laughed,"_ snarled Breakdown. He slurped his crude. The heat in his belly calmed him; the weight in his lap kept him sitting. 

The window-glass crackled; the warehouse settled with a distant groan. The wind picked up, hammering at the crumbling walls.

“They’re a couple of cheap thugs, Breakdown.” Knock Out sipped the Energon like a cocktail. “Crude. Uncouth. _Naturally_ they’re rude.” He set down the cube, face still. “Said a few nasty things. You creamed ‘em. Way of the world.”

“Shoulda backed up over ‘em.” The crude went down in gulps. Breakdown’s tanks hiccuped, gurgling in protest. “Twice.” And then, through clenched teeth: “You laughed right along. You’re pretty funny, Knock Out.”

The wind turned, spraying the window with dust and titanium snow. Knock Out crossed his arms. “Ever stop to consider _my_ side of this, Breakdown?”

Breakdown’s knuckles cracked and popped. “Keep talking.”

“I break my back all solar cycle at the clinic, tongue-bathing some _ugly_ skidplates to get ahead—” He drank deeply, voraciously. The intensity of his hunger staggered Breakdown. “—while living on filtered air.”

He swallowed hard, his armor clicking and shifting.

Breakdown stared, dumbstruck. Knock Out’s flat belly was bulging, barely, beneath the weight of filling tanks. He’d slosh, Breakdown knew, if touched. He’d grown so spare that any full meal showed.

Breakdown felt a wave of grudging sympathy; he resented that, too.

Knock Out kept talking; unconsciously, perhaps, he shifted in his seat. “Then it’s off to the track, for a _glorious_ night of wearing down my treads. Five joors of recharge, whoop-de-doo, and away I go to the Academy to kiss some tailpipe.” The corners of his mouth twitched. “ _You_ eat yourself sick and you punch suckers. And did I mention you _eat?_ Unfair, I’d say.”

His belly gurgled, softly rounded. He put down his empty cube, eyeing Breakdown’s mug.

With a jolt like a fist to the gut, Breakdown wondered if Knock Out had been eyeing his food for quartexes.

“Only fun _I_ get is feeding you treats.”

Breakdown drained his own mug, noisily. “You need to figure out what you want.”

Their gazes met. Knock Out blinked first.

“You aren’t the first.” His tone was brisk and cold as the wind. “Had a few little _projects_ back home. Wasn’t too nice about it. Maybe a little underhanded.”

If it’d been meant to wound, it’d missed; Breakdown stared, feeling nothing save building anger.

“Then _you_ lumbered into my life. My sparkmate. My sweetspark. I watched you get slower,” said Knock Out, lacing his talons neatly. “Felt a little barbaric, doing that to my awfully-wedded—”

“You didn’t,” growled Breakdown. He leaned back, his chair whining. (At that he felt a surge of indignant pride.) “ _I_ did this. Didn’t really care if you liked it or not.”

Three quartexes ago it’d have been a lie.

“You,” said Knock Out, “can be the most _stubborn—”_

“You jealous of all this?” And Breakdown stretched languidly, showing off: a belly that spilled wider than his chest, jutting further than his breastplate; thighs rubbed pale on the inside, so thick they brushed with every step; a growing roll of mesh round his neck-cables, forming a soft double chin; a body _outgrowing_ itself. He stretched—

—and with a sharp stabbing pain and a _ping,_ the pressure on his belly released, and his belly surged forward. He’d broken a rivet at last.

“Well _done,_ Breakdown.” Knock Out’s tone was strangled; he stared with something that was not entirely lust. “You’ve eaten yourself out of your own armor. How’s it feel?”

Breakdown’s fans whirred. His hand found his belly, freshly sagging out of his armor. It was stunningly—intoxicatingly—soft, the mesh dense and velvety. He grabbed a handful. He grabbed two.

A quartex ago he’d have been stricken: the world would know how much he ate.

He welcomed that. A surge of defiance roared up in him.

“Great,” he grunted. “Feels _great._ You oughtta put on a few yourself, if you aren’t too scared.”

He rose, his belly wobbling freely, and stormed from the habsuite.

“Bulkhead.”

The construction site’s lights never died. The rebar skeleton of an Elite Guard barracks soared against the muddy sky.

Breakdown leaned, casual as any barroom tough, against the fence. “Evening. Miss me?”

Bulkhead’s jaw squeaked and ground. “Just tell me what you want.”

“Just a little old-fashioned knock-down drag-out street fight.” He grinned, showing teeth. “I need the exercise. Boxing season’s coming up.”

And so was the Rodion Irregular.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a Chubformers tumblr at deceptichubs.tumblr.com now.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Moderation](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29277513) by Anonymous 
  * [Eating Machine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29756403) by Anonymous 




End file.
